


jōsha hissui

by TexasDreamer01



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, older!Mokuba
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost a decade has passed, but some lessons - taught with a curl of thin, bloodless lips in the darkest hours of the night - are hard to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	jōsha hissui

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JukeboxxSheepters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JukeboxxSheepters/gifts).



> 盛者必衰 ~ sic transit gloria mundi

The moon was little help – but then, he hadn't picked his timing in accordance to some lunar schedule. Allowing himself a moment to roll his eyes (and take them off the five-tumbler lock that was the current focus of his frustration), he absently shook a bit of ink-black hair out of the way. The shoddy lamp flickering in broken staccato above the door was enough, anyway. It wasn't like he needed his sight for this part of the job.

Scowling as the pick slipped again and scraped against his already-abused fingers, Mokuba withheld a hiss and shuffled from his crouched position to alleviate the pins and needles accumulating in his calves and feet from the long minutes spent coaxing the door to open. _Work it like a whore you paid too much for_ , his mind echoed at him. As always, it accompanied dusty memories of a too-sharp smirk and hair that framed another's face like the hands of a ghost. He exhaled, neither shooing the sight in his mind's eye away nor letting it obscure the present, slipping the pick back in to search for the tumbler – third back – that he had been working on, _Tease it slowly, wrest its secrets out with each pick – work it to ruin and make it wish it had given you a lower price by the time you're done_.

It took a few minutes (too many minutes, he should have been done with this nearly an hour ago), but the last two tumblers relented to his stubbornness. Taking a last furtive look around – nobody, not for miles, it seemed, even the cell in his pocket lulled into the eerie not-quite-comfortable silence – the man felt the echo of smug satisfaction. Mingling with his own, but not overtaking entirely. It was the closest he felt to the man in a while.

A quick breath later, and he darted past the rusted door on silent feet, double-checking that it wouldn't lock him in before letting it close shut with a senescent groan. The wharf was empty at this hour – precisely as it was supposed to be. There were few computers in the area, and those that were gathered dust in their respective offices sequestered away from the bustle of the fishing industry. Mokuba headed toward one such office now, lurking in the shadows behind crates on the scattered route to his goal. His shoes barely rustled the air, a favoured and aged pair habitually stashed under his bed. Crouching and breaking into brisk walks made his legs burn with lactic acid buildup, but the young man just grunted and counted the number of steps he needed to make.

Hearing some ominous creaking – maybe boats in the dry dock, maybe creaking floorboards of rented security – made his breath catch. Not knowing who or what was causing the subdued disturbance, he swore internally, resigning himself to an being awkward pile of limbs behind a particularly disgusting-smelling lorry. It was as good an opportunity as ever to bind his hair up (because who knew the next time someone thought hard enough to yank him around by it), so with a muted sigh, Mokuba shuffled off the worn elastic from his wrist and made a ponytail in short, efficient movements. He breathed in deeply, nostalgia deflating a little at the reflexive knowledge that the musky, uniquely metallic scent that accompanied the elastic's previous owner had worn off months and months ago.

 _Doesn't matter_ , he reprimanded himself, giving his head a quick shake to dislodge the melancholy. It wasn't befitting of a Kaiba, and- and _he_ wouldn't approve. Mokuba nodded curtly in the darkness, mind shuffling forward the low, coaxing tones of the long-dead, _Get the papers and get out. You can do the rest at home_.

Reprimand firmly in hand, the man advanced with determination to his goal, good luck charm safely ensconced in the bound nestle of his hair. It was a silly thing, but even the best- even _he_ had superstitions. So little available for the tools of the trade, a little sentiment was as neutral as it was beneficial (and scarcely detrimental). Holding a breath as a shadow flickered suspiciously – mind casting back to foggy memories coloured with blind and numbing terror born of human instinct – but the second it proved to be little more than a rhododendron rustling from the ocean breeze, the floor rebounded with the sound of barely-audible scuffing of his trainers.

The door to the wharf's office was laughably thin, and even if he had proven somehow inept (even the echo lurking perpetually in the back corner of his mind scoffed at the idea of his careful tutoring proving incompetent), Mokuba's last physical barrier could have been kicked in with little effort. His amusement chased away the last shreds of melancholy, and it took little more than an artful wiggle before the door flexed and sighed under his touch. A USB was slotted in with little ado, port spotted and revealed with a flick of his fingers from its hiding place in a late 90s model tower. Despite the ruse, the computer's appearance was little more than a shell, and the login screen loaded promptly.

Allocating the minor victory the subtle twitch of his lips that indicated a rather Kaiba-esque smirk, the relevant files were copied over to the USB in short order. The owner of this particular section of the dock had little relation to his brother's company – inasmuch as anyone in Domino City could be unrelated to the looming, mostly benevolent giant that was Kaiba Corp – but a fifth degree or so was still pertinent enough to create its own justifications.

Leaving was quicker than entering, it turned out; which made infinite amounts of sense considering that he neither locked himself into the wharf (and impossibility given the veritable garage door he _could_ have used – if he felt like alerting half the beachside with a groaning menace of un-oiled machinery) nor had another door that required a frankly boring amount of attention to be paid to it for the price of free passage. Sticking to the gaps that the aged streetlights left, Mokuba's shadow-dark hair swung in cadence to his steps, a direct counterpoint to the bone-white tones that ghosted along the same alleys but a few years ago.

 


End file.
